"Where exactly is your home?" Cassandra asked behind her husband.

By the time they arrived yesterday, they went their separate ways to go home. Cassandra packed her clothes once again for the transient stay at his house. The very next morning—which was today—he picked her up.

He shot her a glance. She knew he was pissed that she was seated at the back of his car. Cassandra was nearly traumatized the last time he urged her to seat in front and when she saw the boxes still present when he came, she remembered he said they were just full of crap so she transferred them in the trunk along with her suitcases, ergo his very foul mood.

"Where exactly is your home?" she asked again. They were nowhere near the tall buildings anymore. "Don't tell me you live outside the city..."

"As a matter of fact, I do," he retorted.

She stared at him incredulously. "You drive more than an hour to get to work?"

"I work at home."

"And how do you manage to turn up in time...all the time?"

"Time management—which you obviously don't have."

"Of course I know how to manage—"

"And I drive fast," he interrupted and looked at her through the rearview mirror and added, "Except when I have some crazy person riding with me who can't handle more than 30 miles per hour."

She pursed her lips. He was right though. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience then," she snapped.

"That's okay, babe. I'm sure you'll need time to rest anyway before you start on your chores."

Her eyes flew towards him. "What do you mean chores? I'm not doing any chores!"

"If you're staying in my house—which you don't have a choice over—you'll do your own share of chores." He smiled for the first time that morning. "It's in the contract. Signed and sealed by your dad."

He was mocking her. It was a challenge. She couldn't back out of a challenge.

But his mood swings were making her feel she was doomed for the rest of six months. Unbelievable!

*****

His house was amazing though—really amazing. And it was really—really—out of the city, way out and too private, too.

At first, you would think it was a small cabin, but once you get closer and looked beyond the trees that covered most part of it, you would see the most magnificent collaboration of modern and nature.

It was made of big trunks and the glass windows surrounding the bigger rooms like the living room and dining room were gigantic they were like walls—well, maybe they were because they ran from ceiling to floor. The moment Cassandra entered the front doors a staircase greeted her which then led to the four rooms of the house. To the right of the staircase was the dining room and deeper into that was the kitchen. To the left of the staircase was Philip's office and at the end of the corridor, at the back of the house was the living room surrounded by the glass walls looking out at the woods. You could actually circle around the house because the living room was directly connected to the kitchen and the dining room in one open space.

"I want to see my room now, please," Cassandra told him a few minutes after the tour.

"Come with me." He led her up the stairs one more time and to the door to the left. He opened it and she entered the tidy room. It was probably the guest room and it was apparent that no one had stayed inside ever since—well, perhaps since the house was constructed.

They went busy putting all her painting equipment and suitcases inside her room and when they were done, he handed her a piece of paper.

"What's this?"

"Schedule."

"Of what?"

He looked at her sarcastically. "Of your lessons."

She just frowned and looked at the chart. "You printed a schedule of the chores? You're unbelievable!"

"I plan ahead," he retorted, shrugging his shoulders.

"You're rich enough to lend my dad millions but you don't have a housekeeper. Amazing."

"Why will I need one when I have you?"

"I'm not your housekeeper, "she waved the paper at him.

"I didn't say you are," he answered. "And I never had a housekeeper."

"Why?"

"I don't like strangers in my house," he replied simply and went back to his original topic. "Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, you do the cleaning and laundry and cooking. I'll do Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Sunday, we do it together."

"You clean your house every day? How do you manage that?" she asked incredulously. "Okay, don't answer that. Time management—I know." She couldn't believe he was such a neat freak!

"And you can't paint just anywhere," he added. "You can't go into the woods without company."

"Why?"

"Just trust me. It's not just any woods out there. You can get lost. And I've had enough of you getting lost," he fixed her a meaningful look.

"Where do I paint?"

"Anywhere outside except the woods or your room. Anywhere else is forbidden."

"Fine," she snapped.

"Questions?"

"No."

"Then start cooking. I'm hungry."

"What?"

"It's Sunday."

"I thought you said Sunday is we-do-it-together day?"

"I'll do the laundry. Or would you rather want to do it instead?" He arched one questioning eyebrow at her.

"Fine, fine. I'll cook."

*****

"This is not lunch. This is breakfast." Philip frowned down at the food she laid on the table. It consisted of eggs and ham.

"That's all I can cook," his wife uttered matter-of-factly.

His eyes narrowed. "This is just one of your make-my-husband-suffer episodes, right?"

Cassandra frowned. "What? No. As much as I'd love to see you suffer, I can't really cook. I tried to tell you that."

He took a deep breath and sighed. "Lucky me I got a wife who doesn't know a thing."

She paused in the act of sitting. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing." He reached for the eggs and started eating.

"I'll be going out tomorrow by the way so I need you to tell me how I can get a ride here."

There it goes, he thought. Shaking his head, he said, "You can't go out tomorrow. Tuesday, you can."

"Why is that?" she demanded.

Because it is not safe. "Because it's Monday tomorrow. You'll have chores."

"I can do them when I get back."

Philip sighed. "Where are you going?"

"I'm meeting a friend."

His jaw clenched as he looked at her. "No, you can't. Tell your friend you'll meet on Tuesday."

"Whatever," Cassandra said. She was refusing to have another argument with him. That in itself was suspicious enough.

*****

She called Harrison that night after a very tiring day of cleaning and Philip's incessant nagging to clean up her room. He was indeed a proclaimed control freak.

"Cass! Are you back in New York?" Harrison's voice boomed.

"Yes, yes, I am..." she trailed off. Well, she was not exactly in New York. She was in the middle of the woods inside a house with her domineering, arrogant husband.

"Why are you whispering?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow," she said hastily. "Look, can you pick me up?"

"Sure, I know your place," he said.

"No, no, I'm somewhere else," she told him Philip's address.

"Isn't it outside of the city?"

"Yes, it is. Can you pick me up?"

"Sure." Curiosity was apparent in his voice. "Cass, are you in trouble?"

"Of course not!" she hissed. But I'll be in trouble tomorrow that's for sure, she thought. "Just text me if you're about a minute away from the address I gave you. Don't call. Text, okay?"

"Okay, okay. I get it. God, you sound like a teenager about to escape out your window."

That's exactly what's gonna happen, she said to herself. "Just be here before lunch. 11:30 sharp. Don't be late!"

"Okay..."

"I got to go now," she disconnected and threw her phone on the bed and prayed silently.

She needed to see Harrison. Somehow, she needed someone to tell about her real situation. Her other friends were out of the picture and she couldn't trust them as much as she could trust Harrison.

Who is he to tell me when to go out?

A sudden burst of excitement and thrill surged up her spine. This was going to be far-fetched from Prison Break, but she now knew what Michael Scofield must have felt.